Broken
by VictorianChik
Summary: When a sick Robert chases down the team to demand answers, Cobb, Eames, Arthur, and Ariadne must make some serious decisions about this new threat. May be slash later on. Spoilers for movie.
1. Remembrance

AN: This movie is beautiful. I can't get enough of it. So, so pretty. Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing and doing an awesome job as always.

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It took four months for the events to explode. Cobb had expected it – inception so deep, so contrary to one's nature, an outcome so drastic, breaking up a financial empire – all just a matter of time before the cracks began to show.

He got the call in the middle of the night.

"Fischer's gone off the deep end," Arthur said, his voice tense through the line. "I was out with Ariadne. He saw us. He watched us for about twenty minutes, and then he came up to our table. We pretended like we didn't know him, but he kept asking where Mr. Charles was. He thought he was about to be kidnapped and he kept coughing and swaying back and forth."

Cobb was sitting up straight in bed by now. "What happened?"

"We told him that he had the wrong people, but he was paranoid. Browning was with him, and he kept trying to pull Fischer away. 'Robert, you're overwhelmed,' he said over and over again. 'You are breaking from all the stress of destroying your father's empire. Let's get you home and to bed.'" Arthur took a deep breath. "And Fischer looked up with this crazy look, pointed at us, and yelled, 'They made me do it! Them and Mr. Charles. It was them, Uncle Peter, all them!'"

"And then?" Cobb sat frozen, waiting.

"Browning got him out of the restaurant, and Ariadne came home with me. But now we're in my apartment with him outside."

Cobb stood up, his cellphone pressed against his ear. "Fischer followed you home?"

"Yeah, he's outside, walking up and down the sidewalk. He doesn't look very good. And Cobb? He's got a gun."

"You packing?"

"Yeah, I have two guns here, but I don't want a shootout, especially with Ariadne here."

"I'll call Eames," Cobb reached for his shirt. "Send a text to Saito. We'll send Mr. Fischer back to where he belongs."

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Sniffing hard against the pressure in his sinuses and trying not to shiver in the cold, Robert Fischer glanced up to the dim light of the third-story apartment window for the eighth time. He could feel his reason dripping away, each second pulling at his sanity like sand falling down an hourglass. Slowly, so slow it barely made any difference at first, but the longer the sand fell, the bigger the expanse at the top.

He was going crazy.

"No, no, no," Robert shook his head, blinking his eyes to keep the tears back. He pushed his face into that icy, blank look he wore so well, half-sneer, half-disgust, the expression he had perfected so many times in the mirror so that he could wear it whenever he had to spend more than thirty seconds with his father.

His sanity he could lose, but the coldness would go on forever. Like that date he had had months ago. The pretty redhead who touched his face in the glow of the firelight – "Robert, is there anything on the other side of this?"

No, there wasn't. Just coldness that silenced years of pain until he felt nothing but ice.

His chest tightened, and he began coughing, that awful hacking noise that echoed against the faded brick building. He felt colder than ever, and his head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to find a bed to lie down on.

Once the coughing stopped, he leaned against the building and put his hand in his pocket and drew out the gun. He had been threatened with a gun in the dreams, the black hole shoved in his face while he tried to hold onto his composure, tried to find that icy resolve to get him through his terror. He hated the fear of being abducted, being kidnapped, being held prisoner, being so helpless.

That was one good thing that would come from dissolving his father's empire. He would no longer be the prince. He could go places without bodyguards; he could have normal conversations without worrying that someone was asking him for something; he could date women without worrying that they were after his fortune.

He would still have money, plenty of money, billions stashed away in off-shore accounts and hidden in bonds and IRAs, but his face wouldn't be on the magazines, quoted in Wall Street, a figure of speculation, always watched.

He would now do the watching and demand answers for what had happened to him on the plane ride and after. Something had changed inside him, and Robert did not like it. He used to have the coldness to rely on, but he found it breaking inside him. He had actually started crying two days ago when looking over his father's clothes. Uncle Peter had found him and made him put down the garments; he had walked Robert down to his study and made him sit down and have a drink of brandy.

"I'm about to have you mentally evaluated, Robert," Uncle Peter had said in that voice that left no room for argument. "You came home with the body, and right away you insisted on breaking up your father's empire, all his work. I told you to wait, but you wouldn't listen. You need to find some way to keep it together, my boy, or both of us are going to visit a psychiatry clinic but only one of us is going to be evaluated."

He had convinced his godfather that he was all right, but hours earlier at dinner, when he had seen those two who had been in his dream, something in Robert had cracked. He felt wounded, betrayed, furious, vulnerable – all feelings he hated. But this time he was not going to suffer. He clutched the gun, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, ignoring the tremors of exhaustion that flowed along his body. He would stay in control this time.

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Eames made it to the apartments before Cobb. If men were given supernatural powers, Cobb would have sworn Eames' power was getting places faster than anyone else and doing so with light, breezy steps and a careless attitude. Eames was dressed in khakis and a dark blue shirt, almost as if he had come in from a day of beach-side golf.

"What's the little bastard gotten up to now?" Eames slipped his keys into his pocket.

Cobb put a finger to his mouth. "He's around the front," he whispered to Eames. "We need to go up the fire escape to get to Arthur and Ariadne. Arthur lowered the bottom level for us. He broke into the empty apartment on the second floor."

"You Americans," Eames shook his head as he and Cobb crept towards the back of the complex. "In Europe, the first floor is the second one. The bottom level is ground level."

"So you start counting 0, 1, 2?" Cobb reached the ladder under the fire escape and pulled himself up. "Who starts counting at zero? Zero is nothing. Americans don't count nothing as something."

Thankfully Eames was too busy climbing up after him to reply.

"Hey," Arthur met them at the window on the first landing. "Get in, and we'll go up."

"I don't know why we're sneaking around like a pair of ferrets," Eames waited until Cobb swung inside before he followed. "We all got guns. Go out and pop Fischer in the knee, call the ambulance, and leave. Pretty boy will crumble like a house of cards with a true threat."

"We're not shooting Fischer," Arthur said. "The guy hasn't done anything wrong . . yet. We got to figure out a way to make him leave without undoing the inception."

Up in the apartment, Ariadne stood in the middle of the room in a tank top and gym pants. She smiled slightly in greeting at the three of them.

"Thanks for coming. Fischer's still pacing. I'm scared he's going to hurt us or himself. He's clearly not all right."

Eames boldly walked up to the window and looked down. "Yep, little bugger's got himself a real play toy. Fischer fancies himself a big boy now."

"Let's call the police," Ariadne suggested. "I mean, the police might have their hands tied with a regular guy on the streets, especially if the guy has a permit for the gun, but a billionaire whose father just died and who is currently breaking up a financial empire? The police would insist he get medical help, probably at a psych ward."

"But that's not good," Cobb ran a tired hand over his face. "If doctors start questioning him too closely, he'll break. That's the problem with inception – you got to get in there, make the suggestion, and then back away."

"That's why Mal went crazy," Ariadne said softly. "The inception, or the inceptor if you will, was too close."

Cobb gave her a haunted look, and she gave him her best sympathetic sad smile.

"So we either run from Fischer," Eames said, "or we kill him."

Arthur put his arm around Ariadne, and she leaned against his shoulder.

"I can't run," Cobb's shoulders slumped. "My kids couldn't take me leaving again and I can't take them with me. And if we kill Fischer –"

"You'll have another death associated with you," Arthur shook his head. "It's too big a risk. Cobb, why don't you –"

"Eames?" Ariadne took a step towards the door where Eames was heading. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to take care of our little problem," Eames' voice had a definite smirk to it as he went out the door.

"Should we follow him?" Ariadne turned to the other two men.

"If Eames wants to play the crazy hero, let him go," Arthur shook his head. "Maybe he'll shoot Fischer, and Fischer will shoot him, and that will be an end to it."

Despite his callous words, Arthur moved to the window to look down at the street; Cobb and Ariadne were right behind him.

Down below, the streetlight was pale and cast a sickly glow on the urban decay of broken sidewalk, blurred graffiti, and timeworn buildings. Robert stood at the edge of the light, just beyond its tired glow. He held the gun tight, but another fit of coughing burned his throat.

"Hey, Fischer," Eames called out as he burst from the apartment building. "That's right, over here, Robbie boy."

Robert jumped off the building, his gun raised and his face deathly white in the street light. Far from being threatening, he looked terrified, and the gun was shaking so badly in his hands that he nearly dropped it.

"Whoa, whoa, there, Robert," Eames put his hands up. "Stay calm."

"You know my name?" Robert managed to steady the gun. His chest tightened again, and he swallowed hard to keep from coughing.

"You're one of the richest men in the world – of course I know your name," Eames was about twelve feet away, his hands still raised cautiously. "I know you're scared, but you shouldn't be. You have a gun. How did you get here? Did you drive here?"

"Yes! No, wait – I – I –"

"You can't remember? Any chance you think this is all a dream?"

Robert's eyes went wide and for a second he looked absolutely crazy. But he steadied the gun again. "If this is a dream, I can shoot you and it won't matter."

"Okay, this isn't a dream," Eames admitted. "Did you come by yourself?"

Robert nodded.

"Did you drive yourself?" Eames looked up the street. "Is that parked Lamborghini yours?"

"Yeah, it's mine," a thin sheen of sweat had broken on Robert's forehead.

"Did you tell anyone where you were going? Your uncle? Your staff? Your guards? Does anyone know you're here?"

"I'll ask the questions. I'm the one who has a gun."

"Okay, okay, I know you're here because you want to speak to Mr. Charles, don't you? You don't remember me that much, but you do remember him. I can take you to see him, but not while you're waving around a gun."

"I have the gun – I'm in charge," Robert aimed it right at Eames' face. "Get moving."

"He's upstairs," Eames went to the door, Robert right behind him with the gun still aimed.

Eames held the door open for Robert, but the minute the armed man stepped inside, Eames swung the door hard against him, slamming against the gun and Robert's arm.

Caught off guard, Robert stumbled back on the sidewalk, and the gun went off, blowing a hole into the side of the building. Before Robert could regain any kind of control, Eames was out the door and on him.

"All right, you pansy-assed rich boy," Eames grabbed the gun and tucked it in the back of his pants before hauling Robert up by the collar, "I've had enough of your shenanigans."

He slammed Robert up against the brick wall, eliciting a groan, and he gave Robert an open-handed whack across the back of the head, which brought about a louder groan. "Pathetic, little twit," Eames grabbed the back of Robert's collar and the waist of his pants and marched him into the building. "Playing with guns, running around making threats. Rich boys like you need bodyguards and armed cars to make sure they don't get into trouble."

"Ow, ow," Robert twisted slightly as he was forced up the stairs. "Let me go. I'm insured for –"

"Ten million against kidnapping. Yeah, we remember."

Robert tried to turn around. "You were the man in the dream who got into the taxi with me! You all were on the plane with me, but I just thought it was a weird dream, and Uncle Peter said it was the stress of my father's death, but – but –"

Eames interrupted by flinging Robert into the room of Arthur's apartment. They all stared at each other for a second. Cobb to Robert, Robert to Arthur, Arthur to Cobb, Robert to Ariadne – nearly twenty seconds of staring without speaking.

"You're all in on this!" Robert lunged for Cobb, but then several things happened at once.

Arthur told Ariadne to go shut and lock the door, and she ran for it.

Cobb managed to grab Robert'ss wrists and hold him at bay though the shorter man tried to thrash his way out and aimed several near kicks at Cobb's knees.

Eames charged at Robert and after a few seconds of fighting, he and Cobb got Robert bent over the dining room table, face down, his hands behind his back.

"He's a live one, all right," Eames gave a short laugh. "Who'd have known that a rich boy would put up a fight?"

Robert meanwhile let out a string of profanity that caused Arthur to put his hands over Ariadne's ears. She laughed at his protective gesture, but Cobb's face was grim.

"Stop it, Robert, stop fighting us. There are four of us and one of you, and you aren't armed, and we all have guns."

"Let me up, you slimy motherfu –" Robert broke off as he dissolved in a fit of coughing. He couldn't stop and his body lurched against the table with each deep hack.

Cobb looked at Eames. "Is he sick?"

"Jeez, let him up off the table," Ariadne insisted. "Put him in a chair before he chokes to death."

Carefully, they lifted him up and set him down on a wooden chair. Robert coughed a few more times, then looked up with red-rimmed, teary, hateful eyes. He didn't speak, concentrating on breathing hard and trying not to give in to the extreme dizziness that made him feel weak and shaky.

Cobb stood over him for a second, arms crossed and stance hostile, but then he reached out a hand. Robert flinched away from it, but Cobb palmed his forehead, pressing his hand for a second even though Robert tried to shake him off.

"He's burning up," Cobb told them before he stooped slightly. "Robert? Robert, how long have you been sick?"

Robert tried to spit at him, but his aim was off and the spittle didn't get anywhere near Cobb.

"None of that," Eames gave him a stern look. "We'll beat you right proper if you fight us. No one knows where you are. You went off all alone with a crazy plan of getting us, which shows just how much you're not thinking. We could kill you up here and put your body in the car and push the car into the ocean, and they wouldn't find you for months."

"We're not killers," Arthur said.

"He doesn't know that."

"No one's killing anyone," Cobb interrupted. "Arthur, you got a thermometer around here?"

"Oh, maybe, let me check," Arthur headed towards the bathroom with Ariadne with him.

"We're going to take your temperature," Cobb told Robert, "and if it's higher than 102, we're tying you up and dropping you off at the hospital."

"And if it isn't?" Eames asked.

"We'll come up with a new plan."

"Found it," Arthur came back into the main room, holding the thermometer up. "Sorry, it's just glass, not digital. And it might taste like strawberries. I was measuring the temperature of a melting strawberry smoothie last time I used it."

"Why?" Ariadne gave him a curious look.

"Just for fun," Arthur shrugged. "It was kind of boring before you got here."

Cobb took the thermometer. "Open up."

"You're not putting that in my mouth," Robert argued.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation here," Eames stood next to Cobb, nearly shoulder to shoulder. "You're getting this inside you whether we put it in your mouth, up your ass, or in the hole that I shoot through your knee. You decide which of those places you want it, and we'll oblige you."

Robert gave him a murderous look and then opened up his mouth. Cobb slipped the metal tip under his tongue, and Robert closed his mouth, his cheeks flaming with fever and embarrassment. If he could have bitten it in two, he would have, but he knew the mercury inside would probably poison him. As it was, the thermometer did taste a little like strawberries.

"You see?" Eames smiled at Cobb, "the proper motivation is all these spoiled rich boys need."

"No need to antagonize him," Cobb glanced at his watch. "Two minutes, then we'll figure out what to do with you."

Robert glared at him, but he couldn't make much of a reply with the thermometer in his mouth.


	2. Control

AN: Thanks again to Fawkes Song for betaing. My goal is to write more this fall, and I'm doing my best to keep up.

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In the two minutes that followed, Robert had never felt so torn apart. In his thirty-odd years, he had always been in control of his emotions. He could be sobbing inside and still manage a cold smile on the outside, that slight sneer of his lips that let everyone know he was better than they were. Emotions Robert could not stand, but superiority grounded him. He was important, worth more, esteemed and praised, the prince of his father's empire and now the king.

But sitting in the wooden chair, the thermometer planted firmly in his mouth, Robert felt the façades slipping away. He tried to rely on the teachings, the guardings, the lessons he had undergone that taught him how to act if he was kidnapped or hijacked or caught in a terrorist plot to overthrow anything. The teachings had been grounded on the fact that any kind of adversary wanted something from him, usually large amounts of money.

The teachings had not focused on what to do if, when stalking after a group of dream-hijackers, he was kidnapped. The assumption was, Robert bitterly thought, that he wouldn't run around with a gun and challenge people into aggression, especially when he felt so bad. Apparently, his teachers had had a higher opinion of his intelligence than they should have had, given the circumstances that he now found himself in.

As for his own temperature, Robert felt it was too personal for other people to know. Like his weight or clothes size – not things that strangers should be told at random. He hadn't felt so violated since the football team had stolen his clothes and made him wait in the gym in a towel until his godfather arrived with new clothes. But even how he felt about a bunch of arrogant prep school quarterbacks shied in comparison to how he felt about the four people watching him.

Unable to say anything, he glared at Cobb. Cobb evenly met his gaze. Next he glared at Arthur and Ariadne, but they kept looking at each other and they were standing really close and she had two fingers of her right hand caught around the rim of his pocket so that was all no good. Robert tried to stare at Eames, but the man returned the look so hostile and aggressive, that Robert glanced away.

"That's right," Eames said. "You just hold still and pray that the number on that," he pointed to the thermometer, "is right."

Robert couldn't decide what the right number would be. Over 102 meant a trip to the hospital, and once he went there, the game was over. They wouldn't let him go, and Uncle Peter would be notified, and Robert knew that between the doctors and his godfather they would get the whole story from him. Considering that he had gone out on his own, sick and coughing, to confront a couple in an apartment because he had seen them in a dream . . . the doctors' verdict on him wouldn't be hale, hearty, and sane.

But under 102 meant having to stay with these people and doing whatever they said, especially now that they had his gun. Were they killers? Could they be bought off?

"Time," Cobb said. He reached forward and grabbed the thermometer.

Caught off guard, Robert nearly bit down on the metal end. Instinctively, he opened his mouth just in time, losing the last of the strawberry taste.

Cobb turned the instrument carefully in his hand, looking for the silver line. He found it and studied it.

"What does it say?" Robert swallowed.

"It's between 101 and 102," Cobb frowned.

Eames came up beside him. "Finicky little thing. It might be 101.5."

"That's not 102," Robert said.

"Unless you round up," Arthur interjected.

"But we aren't rounding up or down," Ariadne said. "The number is what the number is. 101.5 isn't 102."

"It's close," Eames said.

"But it isn't," she said. "Unless Cobb is reading it wrong."

"You come read it yourself," Cobb held out the instrument.

She slipped her hand out of Arthur's pocket and went to read the thermometer. "Yeah, it's close."

Robert had glanced anxiously at each person, but he still couldn't decide which way he wanted his future to go.

He saw indecision on Arthur and Ariadne's faces. They were the weakest of the group, no doubt about it. Cobb and Eames were forces to be reckoned with, but the youngest two . . .

"I have money," Robert looked straight at the girl. Yes, she was dressed in casual nightwear, but she had an air of sophistication and shrewdness about her, a keen eye for detail.

"We know that," Cobb said quietly. "This isn't about money."

"You return me home unharmed and stay silent," Robert coughed sharply, but managed to get out, "a million a person."

"Screw your money," Eames scoffed.

"Now, wait a minute," Ariadne said.

Everyone looked at her, surprised, but Robert smiled inside. He knew how to read them, all right.

"Ariadne," Arthur shook his head.

"No," she insisted, "we still haven't done anything wrong so far. A prowler with a gun was outside and tried to attack one of our friends. We subdued the prowler – self-defense. Right now, we are still innocent in the eyes of the law. If we decide not to prosecute, that's our decision in the eyes of American law. If we drive him home and he gives us money, we could excuse that as simply getting a fee for providing a service for a person. The amount of the fee is immaterial. In fact we could explain all this away as circumstantial misunderstanding. We can still walk away."

"But you're missing something very important," Cobb said.

They looked at him.

"This wasn't a misunderstanding. Robert Fischer came looking for us, armed with a gun. We run now, and we'll never stop running. So we have to make a decision here."

"Two million each," Robert tried to stand, but Eames whipped his gun out.

"Sit down, sick boy. Now, you stay quiet while the grown-ups talk."

"Group discussion," Cobb motioned them close.

Arthur pulled away from the group to grab an MP3 player and headphones from a shelf. He turned it on, confirmed that the music was playing, and then fitted the earpieces around Robert's ears. "Listen to this while we talk."

Robert reached a hand up to pull them off, but Eames gestured with the gun and Robert dropped back in the seat, scowling at the music. He hated Nirvana; the lyrics were unrecognizable and confusing, and Kurt Cobain didn't even try to enunciate anything, like he was the God of Rock and Roll or something equally prestigious.

The four huddled in a circle, turning their backs towards him, and he couldn't hear anything, and he couldn't see their faces to read lips.

At one point, Eames pulled out of the group, shaking his head angrily and gesturing emphatically. Cobb went with him, saying something serious, and after a moment, Eames went back into the group.

They talked and talked, and Robert suffered through two long Nirvana songs, grimacing at the repetition of the choruses. The group was wrapping up now; he could see them all nodding and stepping back from each other.

Eames strode over to Robert and yanked the earphones off. "Wallet."

Robert hesitated for just a second before pulling out his wallet. Eames took it, and thumbed through it quickly.

"About one-twenty in cash, several credit cards, license – dear me, Fischer, for someone so pretty, you take a ghastly photo."

"I wasn't ready and they snapped it," Robert reached for the wallet, but Eames scooted back.

"A receipt for a restaurant," Eames went on. "Quite a bit spent on wine. And what's this? A condom? Who are you sniffing after?"

Eames held up the condom mockingly, and Robert jerked in the chair.

"I have a right to carry a condom if I – just put it back. It's not your property! It is against the law to –" Robert broke into a harsh round of coughing.

Slightly frowning, Cobb caught the wallet and the condom from Eames. He put it back in the wallet and pulled two twenties out, handing them to Ariadne.

"I'll go get dressed and be off," she headed towards the bedroom.

Cobb folded the wallet and tucked it in his coat pocket. "Let's go. Arthur?"

"I'll be there in an hour and a half," Arthur tapped his watch.

Eames and Cobb suddenly swooped down and caught Robert's arms, pulling him up between them.

"Where are you taking me?" Robert felt panicky and dizzy from standing so quickly.

Eames reached his hand into Robert's pocket and pulled out his cellphone. "You'll see when we get there. Now, would you like to be blindfolded or have the bag over your head again?"

"We're not blindfolding him," Cobb began hustling them all towards the door. "We're going to the Ritz. He'll recognize the place."

Robert meant to resist being marched down the stairs, but rather than putting up a fight, he found he had to lean on both men for support. They got to a small black SUV, and Robert got in the backseat and leaned against the seat, trying to breathe and stop shaking. He stared blankly at the headrest in front of him while Eames got in the other side beside him and Cobb swung into the driver's seat.

"Seatbelts," Cobb started the engine and put the car into gear.

Robert reached up to grab the strap, his cold hands fumbling with the buckle. He couldn't manage to get it buckled, and Eames finally reached over and slid the seatbelt shut with a loud click.

"Useless prat," Eames scoffed. "Probably has a staff of prancing servants to dress him every morning. They hold your hands down the stairs so you don't trip?"

Robert swung at him blindly, and his hands smacked at Eames while Eames pushed back. They scuffled for a minute until Robert broke into another fit of coughing and had to collapse back in his seat.

"No fighting," Cobb turned the heat up high until it roared through the SUV. "Eames, keep him calm. We need him awake and able to stand."

"I should have driven so you could baby-sit," Eames sneered at Robert. "Though you crazy Americans insist on driving on the wrong side."

The car kept driving, and as the warmth spread, Robert had trouble concentrating on anything. The sights outside blurred into a collage of colors, and he listened to his own breath rasping in and out of his lungs. The rumble of the engine felt good, and he could bear the ache of his body because he was still and sleepy and warm.

"Fischer," a hand shook his shoulder. "Fischer, wake up."

The car had stopped and his world was cold and ugly as Robert tried to push the hand off. Someone had unbuckled his seatbelt, and Eames was pulling him out of the car to stand on weak, aching legs.

"No," Robert complained as he hung on to Eames, "let me stay in the car. Take my money, but let me stay in the car."

Eames, cold-hearted bastard, kept walking across the parking garage, following Cobb. The lobby of the hotel was slightly warmer, but Robert felt his teeth chattering as Eames pulled him to a stop.

"Pretend you're drunk," Eames instructed. "You'll pretend you're drunk while Cobb checks in. You say anything or try to yell for help, and I'll shoot you in the side."

"What?" Robert blinked, swaying as he tried to stand by himself.

"That will work," Cobb said.

Putting on his charming smile, Cobb went up to the front desk.

"Welcome to the Ritz," the woman in a navy suit and tight-bunned hair smiled at him. "Checking in."

"Yeah, I have a bit of a problem," Cobb dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, still smiling. "My friend and I have gone out with Robert Fisher. Yes, that's him right over there. We – um, kind of have been partying a little too much and need to rent a suite for tonight. Robert wants to pay, but he can't really figure out what to do, and rather than have him come over and say something that might get him into trouble, I thought I'd take care of it. We prefer to keep Robert out of the news, if we can, especially after what happened at the bar."

"I understand," the woman nodded, giving Robert a side-look.

Eames grabbed Robert to hold him steady and smiled at the woman.

"I want to sit down," Robert complained.

"We just need a credit card and a signature," the woman told Cobb.

Cobb reached in his pocket for Robert's wallet.

The room kept getting colder and spinning, in Robert's opinion. He knew he should be running or calling for help or at least trying to escape his kidnappers, but he felt certain he was dreaming. He was back in the hotel with Mr. Charles, but they were staying in an igloo this time.

"Come here, Robert," Mr. Charles or Cobb as he was otherwise known motioned to him.

Robert found himself in front of the counter with a pen pressed into his hand and a paper in front of him. "No," he tried to give the pen back, "I'm not signing anything."

Something hard and round was pushing against his side, and Eames was right against him.

"Now, Robbie," Cobb gave a light laugh, "stop being a drama-queen. Sign the paper and we'll go upstairs and lay down. We told you not to drink those last five shots."

Robert finally realized that a gun was pressed into his side, and he wondered if he should scream for help, but Mr. Charles was on his other side, looking encouraging and helpful as he pushed the pen into Robert's hand.

Robert held his hand steady enough to sign his signature. A few seconds later, both men were hustling him into the elevator. Lots of dinging and beeping, a long hallway, and finally a hotel suite.

Then most beautifully of all, a bed, lying in front of him. Robert looked at it longingly, edging near it.

"Nah-uh," Eames grabbed his arm. "Not yet. Over here, into the bathroom."

The bathroom was huge with a Jacuzzi tub and a walk-in shower. Cobb grabbed the chair from inside the shower, the plastic kind with no arms, and planted it in the middle of the bathroom, and a moment later, Robert sat on it, Eames keeping a hand on him so he didn't slump off.

Robert gazed down at the tile floor, wondering how his dream would end if he slid out of the chair and dozed on its hard, white surface. "Mr. Charles," he leaned his head back against Eames' arm, "help me wake up."

"You are awake," Cobb said. "Fischer, you hear me? Robert? Robert, you're awake. You're just sick."

"I'm sick?" Robert blinked up at him.

"Yeah, but we're getting medicine for you. Ariadne is coming back here with medicine. We're going to take care of you."

"Take care of me," Robert looked down at the floor listlessly. "Nobody takes care of me. I've taken care of myself, always have, always will. I'm going home."

He made a motion to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate and he couldn't leave the shower chair.

A knock sounded.

"Someone's here," Robert jerked his head up. "Someone's knocking in the shower! There's a monster in the shower!"

"Shh," Eames said. "Nothing's in the shower. You're hallucinating."

"I'm hallucinating?"

"Yeah," Eames bent down to look Robert in the eye. "Everything we've said is true, and when you get better, you're going to buy me a yacht and a jet plane and my own island –"

"Eames, stop the greed," Ariadne said as she came into the bathroom, holding a plastic bag.

"You wanted him to pay you a million! He's crazy now – we could be tycoons by the time this is over."

"He's not crazy. He's just sick," Ariadne began opening boxes and unscrewing caps.

Robert watched her work, her hands moving over the objects with precision and skill, almost like a spider weaving a web. It reminded him of the way his mother used to crochet, her nimble hands flying over the yarn so fast he could barely see them. She used to talk to him while he played on the floor with his Legos, smiling at him while her hands flew back and forth.

"Open up," Ariadne grabbed Robert's jaw and tipped two pills onto his tongue. She raised the glass up, and Robert obediently swallowed them down.

Someone had pulled his jacket off, and fingers were at his throat, loosening his tie before pulling it off. Ariadne gave him another pill, a big one, but he gulped down more water.

His shirt got pulled off too, but Robert resisted when they tried to take his white undershirt.

"Robert, arms up," Ariadne insisted, pushing at his wrists until he lifted up. "You can't fight me or you won't get better."

"I'm cold," he chattered as he sat bare-chested in the refrigerator that was pretending to be a bathroom.

"I know," she answered, "but you need to cooperate a little longer."

She touched his chest with something cold, and he shied away, but hands were on his arms, making him sit up. She rubbed the cold stuff into his chest, mostly over his breastbone. It smelled strong and awful, and the stuff burned his skin, but Robert could feel his breathing getting easier.

"Good Lord, love," Eames said somewhere above Robert's head, "what abominable taste you have. Blue plaid flannel pajamas? The man's a billionaire, not some trailer bum."

"I only had forty dollars," Ariadne retorted as she pulled the left sleeve over Robert's arm. "Besides, he won't care what he's wearing. Look how much he likes it."

As soon as he had both arms in the sleeves, Robert crossed his arms over his chest, letting the warmth of the fabric and the heat on his chest spread over him.

"Robert, stand up and take your pants off," Ariadne instructed. "You're going to put on the warm pajama bottoms and I'm going to button your shirt and then you're going to bed."

Eames and Cobb lifted him up, and Robert unbuttoned his pants and slid them down, not caring that she would see him in short boxers. He only cared about her promise of warmth, and he knew she would keep that promise because she was a good person, the best person in the world.

The flannel pants felt ten times better than his Italian-made Gucci suit, and when they walked him out of the bathroom and had him sit on the bed, Robert felt his eyes watering. He had never had a dream this real where people took care of him and made sure he felt better.

"The little wanker's tearing up," Eames smirked. "Hard to imagine the leader of an empire bawling like a baby."

"Knock it off," Cobb said. "Robert, we're going to make a call and I want you to read these words." He handed Robert a sheet of paper with writing scrawled across it. "You're going to read these into the phone and then you're going to bed and you're going to feel better. Are you ready?"

Robert nodded, ready to do anything to get to sleep. The phone was pushed to his ear, and when Cobb nodded, Robert started reading the sheet, concentrating on each word to get it right.

"'Hi, Uncle Peter. I'm going away for a week. I just need a break. I'll have my phone off, but you can leave me a message. Thanks for everything you've done. Bye.'"

The phone and the sheet were taken away, and Cobb smiled at him. "Good job, Robert. Really good job."

Robert felt the praise sweep over him, and it felt so good he barely noticed Eames' quip.

"Stop babying him. He doesn't need kindness – he needs a good kick in the pants."

"He needs sleep," Ariadne positioned two pillows at the head of the bed. "We'll keep his head propped up to help with the draining."

Once Robert's head hit the pillow, he barely noticed anything else afterwards. Not Ariadne tucking the covers over him. Not Eames turning off the light or Cobb standing by the bed for a moment, making sure he was settled down. Robert didn't have the strength to keep his eyes open, and the bed and pajamas felt so warm and soft that he decided he would never leave.

"Aw," Ariadne leaned against the wall, looking at the darkened bedroom where Robert slipped into sleep, "he's kind of cute. You know, in a spoiled rich boy sort of way."

"Don't let Arthur hear you say that," Eames teased.

A knock sounded on the door. "Speak of the devil," Eames grinned as Arthur came in.

"Well?" Cobb asked.

"Yeah," Arthur tossed his keys on the table in the main room. "His car's in this garage with a different license plate and I hacked his email. He sent an email to all his contacts, saying he would be out of town for the next week and all communication should go through Peter Browning."

"Okay," Cobb nodded. "So we have a week to do whatever we need to do to ensure Robert Fischer is on our side."

They all looked towards the doorway where small sounds of sleep gently breathed through the dark room.


End file.
